Notes from the Underground Volume 1 Number 4 - A love letter
Hi Butterfly -
My name's Crazy Pete, and, no, I'm not really crazy, though I've been accused of being mischievious by the amused and a "threat to society" by the not-so amused, a.k.a., anyone from the DA's office. You won't remember me from the postcards I sent you while you were up in the sky way above the rest of us (73 in all); they all apparently went to the wrong redwood, but I did make a nice pen pal in the process named Raven. He says hi and congrats.
So, a little about me...My favorite tuber is the trusty sweet potato, and a woman who knows her way around one can expect the attentions of an unkempt but ardent admirer (be warned!) I'm allergic to strawberries, mushrooms make me gag and cilantro leaves a weird metallic aftertaste in my mouth, but that's about the extent of my hang-ups (I forgot to mention cantaloupe, the demon melon). My favorite concert was Paul McCartney and Wings in Anaheim in '77. I never really liked the Dead, but I still toured with them for three years. Don't ask me why. I hate socks, and I've never owned a watch in my life. I love cornbread. My fifth grade girlfriend dumped me after I spent all my allowance on comic books and Lemonheads instead of taking her to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Once I went for over a year without cleaning out my refrigerator, but I don't know why I'm admitting this. I saw Don Knotts at an airport once, eating Funyons and reading the New York Post. The elderly woman who lives in the apartment above mine thinks that my name is Carl, and I've never corrected her. She once borrowed a spoon from me, and a week later left a half-eaten jar of strawberry jam outside my door on top of a piece of notebook paper that had "For Carl" written on it in calligraphy. I've never seen the spoon again and, as I mentioned, I'm allergic to strawberries. Once I had a nightmare about super long finger nails that curled under, and the next day the cashier at the White Hen Pantry had almost identitical nails. I've been vaguely worried about a mole on my left shoulder my whole life, but I've never really done anything about it. My paternal grandfather was operating the Ferris Wheel at the Missouri state fair, and that's where he met my grandmother, but originally he liked her sister. That's about it, give or take a few details and peccadillos that will be revealed in due time. Oh, and I was on Camp Tomahawk's undefeated steal the flag team of '65.
So, what do you think, Butterfly? I mean, I'm not expecting a commitment or anything, but could you be interested in a guy like me? I have a decent apartment (now that the landlord's been indicted and all), but I could live in a tree if you want. Name the tree and I'll be there. Maybe it's too soon to move in together though, seeing as we haven't even met yet.
Well I just thought I'd break the ice. I'm a really nice guy, I don't snore, and I'm not averse to doing the dishes. My toilet seat? It's down. The last woman I wrote to was Scully from the X-Files, and her fan club sent me a cheesy black and white publicity photo. You're way better than Scully and she's a millionaire.
So let's keep in touch. Write me, and I promise I'll write back. I think you're the cat's pajamas, though I'm not really sure what that means. Whatever. I think you know what I mean. I think.
Talk to you soon -
PS: My favorite song is the "Nights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues ("Cold-hearted Orb, who rules the night..." Wow, you know?) I saw them live once in Memphis, but they came on an hour late, and then they only played like seven songs. Lame.